


lest, least, last

by SummerJay



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Andrew could use a guide to healthy human interaction, Depression, Dissociation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, but what's new, feelings without plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:48:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26462161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummerJay/pseuds/SummerJay
Summary: Neil Josten, #10, is the number one hazard to Andrew’s world.Post-canon one-shot. The road from nothing to something in a handful of broken moments.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 20
Kudos: 113





	lest, least, last

**Author's Note:**

> For Hanna. It's your fault entirely and I love you for it. Thanks for taking no bullshit and pulling me into one of the best fandoms ever. You're amazing.
> 
> There is hardly any plot whatsoever. It's Andrew's POV. I couldn't stop myself, and I regret nothing.  
> Hope you enjoy!

Neil Josten, #10, is the number one hazard to Andrew’s world.

Andrew is almost impressed—he decides to be so, in fact, for the five seconds it takes Neil to get to his feet and stretch out a hand carefully, offering but never expecting. He doesn’t expect anything of Andrew these days, just accepts whatever he gives without a word and never asks for more. It’s strange. It’s earth-shattering in a way. Andrew fucking hates Neil.

“Come on. You’ll freeze out here.”

Neil waits a second, weathering Andrew’s blank brief stare without visible effort. Then he waits a minute. Neil is bad with hints.

“Doesn’t sound like your problem,” Andrew eventually says, turning away.

“Don’t be difficult.”

“I’m not. You are.”

The tips of Neil’s fingers twitch in his peripheral vision. Andrew suddenly wants to see the expression on his face, wants to see the awkwardness and confusion, derive some tinge of bitter glee from it. It’s his method when he wants to feel—people are easy to rile up, and anger is about the only thing that manages to break through anyway—but somehow it never quite works on Josten, so Andrew doesn’t look.

He takes a drag on his cigarette instead.

Neil waits for another moment before dropping his hand and leaving the roof. It’s hard to read him without seeing him, the perfect liar, so the sentiment behind Neil’s departure remains undiscovered.

He could be unfazed. Simple courtesy and simple rejection. He could be frustrated, Andrew’s apathy seems to have that effect on him sometimes. He could be smiling, because Neil only smiles when he’s not being watched, and glimpses of it are etched into Andrew’s memory without his consent because he’s just so good at looking he forgets how easily it backfires when he can’t fully erase anything he sees from his head.

Andrew breaks the cigarette. It leaves a tiny stain of ash on his palm, slight burn, and falls four stories down, swayed off course by the wind. Andrew’s chest is hot and bubbly, and he looks down at his dangling feet, thinking perhaps it’s finally fear, but it’s too gnawing and shallow, doesn’t cut deep, just dances on his skin in prickly unpleasant spikes.

He doesn’t like not knowing. He always knows. He doesn’t with Neil.

It’s not fear, and it’s not anger, and Andrew realizes, with a spectacular delay, it’s fucking _irritation._ It’s almost enough for him to fling himself off the rooftop and be done with it.

In the toned down ice-barred invincible world Andrew has built for himself, Neil Josten with his small-scale emotions is an unfamiliar kind of danger.

Andrew contemplates it, sitting on the ledge until his fingers go numb with cold. There are many possible solutions, he finally reasons, and only few of them end in death.

Andrew returns to the dorm, thinking it’s worth trying less energy-consuming methods first. First signs like this don’t necessarily have to end in a bloody mess; it’s simply a race to snuff them out before they get a chance to inflame.

Andrew settles on confronting the problem head-on. He kisses Neil senseless that night.

Neil doesn’t say anything about the cold hands running down his stomach, barely speaks at all, and somehow it still screams _care_ too loudly for Andrew to ignore among Neil’s ragged breathing and dry lips on his throat. He notices, more than ever, how Neil’s hand twitches and stays in place, and how he bites his lip hard instead of reaching for Andrew. He’s blown out of his head—Andrew makes sure of that—but he still remembers, as if consideration for Andrew Minyard’s broken feelings is one of his long-learned instincts.

Andrew hates him.

He goes a step further that night and stays in Neil’s bed. Doesn’t matter a thing, this novel arrangement. Andrew can do it if he’s too lazy to move, and it will change exactly nothing between them. Making Neil see this somehow feels worth it, even though Andrew knows he won’t get any sleep with another body so close.

Neil doesn’t protest. He settles a gingerly foot away, turning his back to Andrew, and falls asleep in seconds, with his hands stuffed under the pillow. The evening ends on Andrew’s terms.

It’s getting colder by the day, and it eats a big enough hole through Andrew’s grip on himself to blur the relevance of anything else around for a while. Weeks go by. Autumn is yielding to winter, slowly but surely.

When Andrew sees the snow for the first time, he flops back onto his bed and sleeps straight through the twelve hours of classes and practice, then lingers in the dreamy detached state for the rest of the night, inhaling more air than smoke for once. He keeps dropping the cigarette. Keeps lighting a new one. His fingers act of their own volition, and it’s almost worse than any nightmare.

Neil finds him like this one night—sitting on the window sill with his feet up, trying to get the stick of death to cooperate.

“Andrew,” he calls quietly.

Andrew doesn’t respond. Same stubborn consideration, trying not to spook him, but it doesn’t matter at all this moment. Andrew’s so detached he can barely feel himself, much less the world around. Neil is inconsequential.

“Andrew.”

Neil sits on the edge of the sill, and Andrew lets his gaze drift to him, expecting something normal at last. Pity, worry, softness, guilt. Something along the lines of a sappy show of support with hands reaching and withdrawn.

But Neil radiates none of those.

“I told Dan not to go looking,” he says, with a jarring expression of determination. “But _I_ live here now. You’re smarter than that.”

Andrew keeps looking, just for a second. Then, he reaches out, getting his limbs to coordinate on pure approximation of the space between them, and pokes Neil’s burnt cheekbone.

Neil doesn’t flinch.

Curious. Andrew traces his finger lower, to the already tipped chin. That’s the face Neil makes when Kevin pisses him off enough to unearth that ferocity that helps him tear through anything and anyone. An unstoppable force.

On a better day, Andrew would summon up all the remaining pieces of himself just to push against it.

“Am I?” he manages to inject a mocking note into his voice. “Am I an obstacle to you?”

It shouldn’t make any sense at all, but Andrew isn’t here enough to care. He relocates the hand to Neil’s wrist and locks on his pulse point.

Neil looks back at him, with almost cruel openness.

“Not you,” he says. “You need a bandage for that burn. Don’t go anywhere.”

_Not high enough to go anywhere._

Andrew maintains silence. Neil leaves.

Funny, how Neil almost sounds real.

Andrew surveys the burn on his hand. There is a tiny spot of ash where the burning tip rested when Andrew tilted his wrist, it’s too dark to see the angry mark it left. There was no smoke, so he didn’t notice. Now Andrew feels—the pain comes in a rush, knocks some chilly air into his lungs. He flings the cigarette out the window and taps the burn a couple of times, clenching his teeth against the jolts of hot pain.

 _Tap-tap._ Andrew can hear the world.

 _Tap-tap._ Insistent and sharp. Andrew can think.

He digs his fingers into it when the pain gets almost nauseating, more real in memory than in the present, and he drags it into here and now, together with his struggling consciousness.

He hates this cotton-filled disassociation the most. He hates it more than he hates Neil.

Neil returns in a few minutes, carrying what looks like a personal first-aid kit, and Andrew does nothing to hide what he’s doing. Neil eyes him once, smashes into the dispassionate gaze and doesn’t say anything.

Dangerous. Fucking stupid. Childish almost. Neil will burn out very soon, and Andrew’s inching too close to letting him indulge in this short-lived affection, doomed as it is.

They will both get burnt, and Neil is too oblivious to do something about it.

Andrew’s about to take charge, a colossal effort, but Neil puts out a hand, and Andrew freezes.

It’s only a promise of a touch, Neil doesn’t do a thing to actually approach his skin. But Andrew can’t breathe. It’s black and choking. It’s the middle of the night. His padded box of apathy is so timely in shambles.

Neil stands his ground, only once flickering his eyes to Andrew’s armbands when he fingers the edge of the knife, and then Neil surely returns his attention to Andrew’s face. As if he’s not about to lose his playing hand.

“Andrew,” he calls, for the thousandth time tonight, voice even and gentle. “Yes or no?”

“No,” Andrew spits so fast it could be just in his head.

It doesn’t matter either way. The helping _fucking_ hand will arrive. Neil will frown and say it’s for Andrew’s sake, and it will get ugly and bloody, and he will be done by the end of it, finally done for good because the world doesn’t change and he won’t, can’t, fucking _won’t_ stay to discover how much worse it can get-

“Okay.”

Neil drops his hand. Drops the bag on the sill. Drops himself on Andrew’s bed.

Andrew blinks, tasting blood.

“The yellow pack. They gave it to me at the hospital, it’s for burns.” Neil folds his legs under himself and props his chin on his hand. He looks calm and stupid. “It will scar less if you use it. There’s also gauze, but I guess you can leave it like this till morning.”

“What the fuck are you talking about,” Andrew says, it’s not a question. He wills his heart to behave.

Neil should be tired—this is his daily two hours of sleep, after all—but he watches Andrew watch him with silent intensity.

“Do you want another scar? From this?”

“Is it our hand now, Neil?”

Neil shakes his head. “It will always be yours. But I hate seeing you hurt. And there has to be a time when they stop being a solution. Now’s as good as any.”

Hell, of course. Life is a circle, isn’t it. Andrew pulls out a knife and presses the edge to the tip of this thumb, not enough to cut yet, not really caring if he does. Neil tenses on the bed, his jaw working, but he doesn’t move to stop Andrew.

“You’re not fit enough to contest,” Andrew finally says; by the way Neil’s fingers curl around his knee, Andrew knows he nails the biting intonation. “I’ll destroy you.”

_I hate you I hate you I hate you_

Neil drops his arms, shifts to hug the knee close to his chest and gives Andrew one of those rare quiet smiles before closing his eyes. Andrew considers throwing the knife in his direction. Just for good measure. Just to illustrate why exactly giving Andrew his back outside the deal is the most idiotic thing Neil could do in life.

“Ask me,” Neil says.

Not a chance in bloody hell. It’s not Andrew who wants this. Andrew wants nothing.

“Fuck you.”

“I know.”

“I hate you.”

Neil yawns, still smiling. “115%. Get the cream.”

Andrew responds by pushing the bag off the sill. When the cracking of glass adds to the loud thump, Neil opens his eyes to survey the damage. He doesn’t say anything—is it Neil Josten at all, Neil Josten who runs his mouth like a freight train?—just reclines on the wall and watches Andrew with half-lidded eyes for several long moments. Andrew doesn’t care to meet his gaze this time. He settles on lighting another cigarette.

“120%.”

Somehow, it makes Neil laugh.

Neil stays in Andrew’s bed, and Andrew stays on the window sill.

In the morning, Andrew goes to practice.

Kevin rounds on him for the entirety of thirty-two seconds before Andrew finally graces him with a glance, and whatever Kevin sees makes him shut up for the next few hours. The newbies gape at them with barely concealed interest. Neil doesn’t gape; his look is brief but so focused it almost makes Andrew’s skin crawl.

Kevin looks through him when he’s shouting. Neil tries hard every time to look _inside_ him.

Andrew runs laps until he starts feeling his body and collapses onto the bench straight after. He watches Renee miss two out of thirteen goals Neil’s striker shoots at her. She glances up at some point, as if sensing him—which Andrew never entirely puts past either of them, it’s just how it goes with Renee—and Andrew doesn’t turn away for the first time this morning. Not giving, not taking. Not interested. Not avoidant. Just present.

Renee tightens the grip on her racquet. The next time, she only misses once. Andrew still marvels, when he can, how angry she can get over his head.

Andrew’s entirely content to never touch a racquet again, but there is only so much Dan will tolerate. And she tolerates a lot. When she finally gives up on holding herself back and comes to him during a break, Andrew sneers a little in his mind—nothing will ever teach Dan Wilds to stop biting off more than she can chew.

“It was your turn forty minutes ago. Get your ass on the court.” She doesn’t as much as blink under Andrew’s unimpressed gaze and folds her arms on her chest. She means business. “We have new players who have barely seen you deflect a ball. They can’t rely on you. Can’t play with you. The last game was a miracle because Chris suddenly decided to get good, and I’m not going to let you butcher our season with arrogance.”

Andrew lifts an eyebrow, slowly. As minor as the gesture is, it takes fucking energy. He hates it.

“So you’ve finally run out of favors with Neil,” Andrew says, inclining his head. “Or did he tell you it was pointless? About time.”

Dan huffs, dropping her arms.

“You’re not Neil’s dog for him to hold the leash. You’d have heard if you had been here yesterday. He was very specific. And it was really inappropriate of me to ask him, so…” She tips her chin, gesturing at herself. She seems to struggle with Andrew’s silence, but Dan is nothing if not determined. If she decided to talk to him herself now, there are only two things Andrew can do to stop it, and it’s distasteful even for him to start a morning with bloodshed.

Dan sizes his unresponsive form up and makes a decision.

“Get your ass on court in ten. You can show off as long as they stay alive and with no bones broken.”

And that is the wrong thing to say.

Andrew smokes half a cigarette unabashedly in Wymack’s full view, ignoring his death glares, and goes to change into his gear.

The stadium, consisting of newbies almost by half now, seems to hold its breath. Then, the balls start flying. They all land, accurately, mercilessly, inches away from Neil Josten’s toes, and Andrew doesn’t even start swinging his racquet properly until Neil hurls the ball in his direction so hard the shocks from impact rip all the way up to Andrew’s elbows.

It turns into one-on-one for the fifteen minutes the team uses to drink some water. Neil plays aggressively, aiming for the goal, and Andrew beats him back more and more purposefully, trying for his knees. Neil almost scores once, and Andrew throws himself on the ground without thinking, giving his racquet a sharp twist mid-air.

The deflected ball catches Neil on his helmet. Neil stumbles back while Andrew’s busy getting up, suddenly out of breath, suddenly moving way more than he intended, and though nothing is strong enough to show on his face, he _feels._

When Andrew stands and leans carelessly onto the wall, Neil takes his helmet off to demonstrate a smug grin. Andrew flips him off. Dispassionately.

Neil’s lips twitch, his eyes are bright and sparkling, and everything about him is red, warm, glaring, vibrant. Alive. Andrew suddenly wants to kiss him. He hasn’t—not in the last few weeks.

Neil holds up his gloved hands for a moment, showing two and five.

Andrew fucking hates himself.

He doesn’t talk to Neil and doesn’t miss another training until their next game.

. . .

An Exy ball can break bones. At 110 miles per hour, a ball to an uncovered head breaks lives. It doesn’t happen, because the game is stopped immediately when a piece of a player’s gear comes off, so the borderline negligence only exists in theory.

Except, in Exy, there is no sequence.

Neil Josten falls.

Martinez shoots at the wall, unable to get past Aaron.

On the way down, Neil Josten loses his helmet to Tara’s knee.

The ball reaches its designation at the wall before Neil Josten fully connects with the floor, and the crowd isn’t screaming, the referee isn’t running, the game isn’t stopping, because the window of time is too small, too impossible for human comprehension.

The only reason Andrew deduces the trajectory of the rebound is because he launched himself forward as soon as Martinez took the shot.

A blur—orange and green, the flashing bright blue.

Andrew’s empty. Neil doesn’t matter. The teams don’t matter. The only thing that exists is the ball, and the ball will not land.

Andrew smacks Neil on the back of the head when he shoves the racquet in front of himself and holds on for dear life. There isn’t room to swing, so he takes the impact. A flash of pain in his arms, half a breath—and it’s over before it could begin.

The crowd goes wild, and the buzzer for a break roars while the referees rush to unlock the doors and let Abby on the court. Kevin is running towards them, and Allison is pushing her way through Dan in the general direction of Tara. Wymack is shouting something from the door. It’s bits and pieces, all uncoordinated, irrelevant.

Andrew sees red.

It takes a second to realize it’s coming out of Neil’s nose.

Andrew shoots one slow glance to Tara across the field. He finds her, unmistakably, inevitably, and although she’s standing behind the backs of her teammates, helmet in hand, she sees him too. There’s not much on Andrew’s blank face, he knows. All the better. She won’t see it coming.

“Hey.” There’s a careful tug at the sleeve of his jersey, and Andrew shifts the gaze to a small stain of blood that Neil’s fingers leave. “You okay?”

Andrew rolls Neil’s helmet towards him with the end of his stick. He doesn’t offer a hand.

“No point protecting your head if you don’t use it.”

Neil keeps studying his face, still dazed from the hit, and Andrew stalks off before the lost look can make him start throwing punches. He’s angry. He’s fucking furious. He wants to punch Neil through the wall for minding the outcome of the game more than his surroundings. It’s clawing at him, from inside, and he’s close to letting it out.

“Jesus, Neil,” Abby mutters, tipping Neil’s head down to take a look at his nose, and gets to work.

Concern and sympathy erupt all over the place, and Andrew leaves them to it; it’s what they do best, after all. He feels Kevin’s eyes on his back all the long long way to the goal. Kevin is uncharacteristically reserved. He spares Neil one line in French and doesn’t bother Andrew with his childish requests this time. It’s not interesting enough to hold Andrew’s attention for long.

The game continues, and Neil Josten survives the night. They win.

Tara gets benched for the rest of the game, so all the bruises go to Martinez. A well-launched Exy ball, after all, travels at the speed of 110 miles per hour.

At the end of the game, in a hallway away from cameras, Neil smiles at him from the far end and touches two fingers to his temple.

Andrew’s head doesn’t stop pounding with the stumbling _“you okay?”_ until they reach South Carolina.

There must be something seriously and irreparably broken in Neil if the first thing he thinks about after narrowly avoiding certain death is Andrew Minyard’s well-being.

Andrew says so, when they’re alone in their suite, by the grace of Nicky’s uncanny and utterly sporadic ability to read the room and kick everyone including himself out before the massacre can begin.

Neil shrugs, knowing perfectly well what he’s doing. Andrew is not impressed.

“Explanation. Now.”

Neil sprawls on the beanbag, seemingly unintimidated by Andrew’s looming figure. “I didn’t have time to panic, that was just a hit in the face to me. But you looked… angry. And scared. So I asked.”

“I like it better when you are intelligent. You’re less interesting when you’re stupid.”

“Kevin was speechless, you know. Afterwards, when you were gone. He told me to make you continue like that, if I could.” Neil traces something on his palm absently. “I told him to fuck off.”

“Instead of throwing yourself under another backliner twice your size? Impressive, Neil. A few more near-death experiences and you’ll grow a full brain.”

Neil mouths off to people. It’s what Neil does. It’s what Neil, by every right, should do now, because it would bring this thing between them back to the same level as every other thing between Neil and people, and Neil, of course, tries his best to do the opposite of what’s right and good.

He gets up and takes the cigarette pack out of Andrew’s hand.

“Thank you,” he says simply, and it breaks something ice cold in Andrew’s chest, just a little. “For being there.”

Andrew will die before he responds. He takes the cigarette out of Neil’s fingers and looks out into the night.

There’s only so much a man can do to ward off kindness. Andrew isn’t in the habit of lying to himself, not exactly, so he knows when the last wreckage of the ship sinks and cuts off the way to solid land for good. It’s past time worrying about letting Neil care. It’s way past time to freeze the longing out of himself.

If Neil insists on complicating things, it’s not Andrew’s fucking problem, after all. He’ll take the damage, but at least he won’t be clueless about its fast approach.

They start kissing again. On better days.

Andrew puts Neil’s hands under his shirt once and holds his wrists in an iron grip, breathing with such focus Bee would fucking cry with pride if she could see.

“Okay?” Neil asks quietly, looking, looking at him, not moving a muscle in his whole body. It’s late, but the light is on. They ended up kneeling on the floor for some reason, knees touching, and now Neil looks like he’s been entrusted with something larger than anything he’s ever known.

Andrew waits for his body to start fighting, but nausea never comes. Just crystal clear concentration, almost painful, and the warmth of Neil’s compliant fingers.

“You’re not doing anything,” Andrew says.

“That’s not an answer.”

Trust is a dangerous, worthless commodity. But Neil’s taking obnoxiously long to prove Andrew right, and Andrew develops a strange distaste for the ticking clock in the back of his skull. It used to be a hazard, now it’s merely an impossibility.

It’s the least likely universe where Neil Josten, for once, runs head-first into the mess, and Andrew knows it won’t survive for long.

The silence stretches, but Neil doesn’t shift, doesn’t move his hands. Andrew’s tempted to test his patience, but he’s running out of time.

“Okay.” His voice is bored, but Neil somehow looks like he knows more than Andrew does.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Shut up, for starters, but I aim for realism.”

Neil huffs and leans in, letting Andrew close the final inch to meet his lips. “You can’t aim for shit.”

Andrew bites into his mouth.

Now isn’t a good time, but there’s never a good time. He starts dragging Neil’s palms across his skin and lets Neil’s silent exhales carry him through.

Even with his hands on Neil’s, and his mouth on Neil’s, distracting him from the worst of it, Andrew has to stop eventually. His heart is pounding against his ribs, skin burning from Neil’s kisses on his neck; he can’t control the moment when reflexes come close to swallowing him whole. It’s not a matter of will; Andrew thinks he might be permanently rewired to bolt now.

He doesn’t have the time to do anything. Sensing the sudden stillness, a gaping hole in place of Andrew’s attention, Neil gently but firmly removes his hands from under Andrew’s shirt and brings them up to frame his face instead.

Red looks good on his cheeks.

“You’re amazing,” Neil whispers, rubbing the tension from Andrew’s jaw in small circles.

Familiar touches—face only, hands barely—come in a crushing wave of comfort that Andrew doesn’t expect. He used to push himself so hard to keep from shuddering every time Neil fell asleep with his head on Andrew’s shoulder; being here now, wanting this without reservation, with only untainted heat pooling in his stomach—Andrew’s head spins for one wild moment. It feels like freedom.

Neil lets out a small yelp when he’s being unceremoniously pushed onto his back, but it soon blends in with shaky attempts to draw breath.

His hand hovers above Andrew’s head, barely touching, while Andrew deals with his belt like it’s a personal offense.

“Is this okay? Are you-” Neil blanks out for a second, Andrew guesses it’s got something to do with hot lips closing around his cock.

He pulls off.

“Yeah. I am.” It’s the rush or the taste, but Andrew feels this moment like he can actually believe himself. “Put your hand back.”

Neil does. And smiles a little.

The least likely things turn out to be dangerously addictive.

. . .

Neil makes his way into the conversation for the past three sessions Andrew has with Bee. It’s hard to notice: she asks about the Foxes so frequently Andrew doesn’t bother keeping track of what he says. Today he thinks, feeling his cheeks go warm, maybe he should.

“You sound like it’s comfortable with Neil,” she says, and Andrew takes a moment to memorize the way his face tingles. “Is that the right word?”

Andrew doesn’t look at her. Feeling things—small things—is still a conscious work more than instinct, and he feels too exposed when they worm their way through without his intervention. It’s a benign kind of embarrassment. But it still burns.

“I don’t want to talk about Neil today.”

Bee nods, ready as ever, and accepts it without question. She knows Andrew rarely needs a push, and she also knows exactly when to hold back from delivering it.

It’s a bad day. Andrew knows the signs and knows it’s just a gateway to a bad week. Soon, he’ll be forced to talk to her—he’s learned the hard, _stupid,_ way what happens if he doesn’t during one of those times when the world silently curls around him and squeezes until Andrew becomes a lifeless, worthless nothing. Today he can hold back, and she knows it.

They talk about coffee roasting methods and Bee’s new cat for the rest of the session. Andrew’s not entirely there, and he’s not trying to hide it, but Bee carries on with ease and understanding, and he swallows around the dryness in his throat.

It’s a wasted session. But somehow, Andrew is more important than Bee’s time.

The tumble is predictable. Doesn’t mean it’s divertible. Andrew keeps his knives at hand—this is the only way he’s not tempted to use them—and goes through the week on one shallow breath. He plays with Foxes, sleeps with Foxes, and no one seems to notice anything through the carefully stitched veil of boredom and nonchalance. That’s the way Andrew is. They’re used to it. He’s entirely content not to waste energy on dealing with their sympathy.

It’s a matter of time before the bubble pops, and Andrew watches the guy come at him with deep-seated resignation. In the bleak glimmer of a streetlight, the falling snow is almost pretty.

He waits for the first blow to land.

Andrew has never been an instigator—too much involvement needed for that sort of thing, too much care and reason, of which he still has so little it’s barely enough for Exy, much less for unbidden alley fights. Besides, he made Renee a promise.

Sensing an easy victory, the guy stands straight when Andrew doesn’t, and all Andrew can think is _thank fuck,_ because the slight swaying, the reek of spilled alcohol, the man’s angry breath right into his face—it’s all getting rather disgusting.

There are words, possibly even sentences. Andrew stops trying to decipher after another slurred “you lil shit,” and his unresponsiveness must be infuriating, because the guy grabs his coat and slams him back into the wall, and, after another moment, Andrew decides the situation qualifies for a special clause in Renee’s no-fighting-unless-you’re-fighting-me agreement.

He goes lax in the guy’s fists, dropping just a few inches lower, and drives a knee through his groin.

The wail is loud.

Andrew steps aside, just so that his back is to the expanse of the street behind, and watches the guy curl around his aching dick, out to the world for a few precious seconds. Now would be the time to run.

Andrew pats the pockets of his jeans for the keys and goes to pick up the pack and lighter he dropped when the guy decided to assign a random stranger as his punching bag for the night. He’s slipping on the ice a little. It’s getting worse. If anything, the beginning nausea should be reason enough to go back to the dorm and drink himself into oblivion before homicide charges gain too much potential energy.

The groaning is quickly fading in the background. Andrew thinks about Neil. Thinks about coming back to Neil—apparently, this is what it is these days, Neil lying curled up in a beanbag until Andrew decides to return, clearly, glaringly not waiting for him but leaving for the bedroom as soon as he surveys Andrew’s face and finds something known to him alone.

Coming back to Neil the way he is right now—it stings like fucking frostbite.

So Andrew shrugs off his coat. A kick to the groin, he knows, with something vicious and dark uncoiling inside him, makes a man helpless for a few seconds. After that, it makes him very, very angry.

At the end of it, the guy’s bluster evaporates. Pathetically, he starts limping away as fast as his legs can carry him on the slippery pavement, as if Andrew weren’t moving in the other direction already, any interest lost to the soothing, quiet lightness in his head. It must have something to do with his bleeding arm, but Andrew couldn’t care less.

Carrying about a knife when it’s already in motion is fruitless either way. The guy’s hand emitted a dull wet crack after thrusting the blade towards Andrew, and that was the end of it.

He gets the first good look at the damage in front of the suite door, and it’s less gruesome than the pain suggests. The coat conceals everything save for Andrew’s bloody fingers, and the mess of his forearm when he takes it off is covered by the now-shredded black armband. A few drops of blood manage to reach his palm, but most of it is soaked into the fabric. Regardless of how it feels, it doesn’t look bad at all.

Andrew realizes he’s still holding his coat in hand only when he strides inside, and Neil’s expression goes sharp enough to cut glass.

 _Fight or flight._ He still can’t help it. Maybe he never will.

“Do you need Abby?” is the first thing Neil asks, voice tight, coming within his usual two feet of Andrew. Many things leave Neil’s mouth, but bullshit questions rarely make the cut.

Andrew goes to the bedroom, not surprised in the slightest when he hears footsteps following him, disappearing for a minute, reemerging when Neil invites himself into the room with his first-aid kit in hand.

He looks—tired.

This is it, Andrew thinks triumphantly, pushing the bitterness back into his throat when Neil drops the bag onto the table in front of Andrew. Expected and long-awaited, Neil Josten decides to be smart and give up on things that show neither improvement nor gratitude for his stupid heart.

But instead of leaving, Neil rubs a hand over his face, chasing the sleep away, and sits down, kicking the leg of the second chair and looking up at Andrew with an eyebrow arched.

“Don’t be difficult.”

This time, Andrew obliges. Standing in the middle of the room doesn’t make any damn sense anyway.

“You’re bleeding but you’re standing up, so I’m guessing it’s something shallow. Can I look?”

Andrew heaves his arm onto the table. He’s itching for a cigarette. A minute ago, it wasn’t okay, but it was normal; now Neil’s staying when he’s supposed to be leaving, and Andrew has no idea what to do with it. Maybe it’s always going to be like that with Neil: every time doubting, every time being proven wrong. How many times does Andrew have before he’s right?

“Andrew. Can I look?”

Neil doesn’t take silence for an answer. Maybe because of this Andrew stands to open the window and lights up before returning to his seat and stretching his arm on the table.

“Your fetishes are crossing into disturbing.” Another endless second. He’s stalling, Andrew realizes, for whatever fucking reason, and it’s enough for him to sigh and recline on the backrest before saying, with a tint of exasperation, “You can look.”

It hurts when Neil slides his armband off, making the lingering bits of icy dust rub on the edges of his torn skin. Andrew studies Neil’s face as Neil clenches his teeth and wordlessly wipes the area around the slash clean off blood. It looks awful, he knows. Not dangerous, stinging just outside the realm of Andrew’s concern, but Neil’s expression when he goes rummaging through his bag suggests quick but painful death to whatever’s dared touch Andrew’s body.

For one heartless second, Andrew thinks it’s because of next Friday’s game. A goalie is no good without a working hand, and Exy has always been a flashlight into Neil’s eyes, blinding him to everything and everyone. But Neil deserves more credit, even if the reason behind it remains a great mystery.

Andrew finds himself speaking before he knows it, voice slightly hoarse from the smoke.

“He started it. I broke his hand.” He doesn’t owe Neil a fucking explanation, but some of the tension in his features eases, and Andrew decides he likes that. “You’re even stupider than I expected if you think I did that.”

Neil puts aside the bottle of rubbing alcohol but keeps his fingers on Andrew’s palm, gently pinning it down. Andrew doesn’t want to meet his gaze, but somehow it feels like surrender, so he keeps his eyes even with Neil’s and inclines his head.

“You don’t talk to me. How am I supposed to know what you would and wouldn’t do? I can only deal with the aftermath.”

“No one asked you to deal with anything.”

Neil shakes his head, unfazed by the sharp tone. “No. Ask me.”

Andrew looks at him. Neil looks back. The world doesn’t burst into flames.

“This needs stitches,” Neil says eventually. “I’ve done it numerous time, but we can go-”

Andrew cuts him off with a wave of his free hand. Speaking suddenly feels like the worst option in existence, because he’s not entirely sure which words will decide to leave his throat.

_Ask me._

As if that would change anything. As if anything is that simple. Neil, of all people, should know that “just asking” is never just and rarely ends up in a favor: it’s always a trade, often unfair, and Andrew doesn’t have anything left to give, not when Neil doesn’t need his protection anymore.

Neil watches his face carefully and then gets to sewing him up without another question.

Andrew feels like throwing up. The only reason he opens his mouth is to inhale the freezing air from the outside, but what comes is goddamn words, and, apparently, on these bad days he can be as bad as Neil, when the enabler in flesh and blood is tending to his injured arm with focus and care that have no place in his life but, with great effort and loud screeching, manage to fit.

“I don’t want you.”

“You’re a bad liar.”

“Neil finally has problems hearing a ‘no’?”

Neil huffs at the poor blow and gets to wrapping Andrew’s arm up. Andrew _wants_ so badly it’s almost a struggle to keep it on the leash.

“No,” Neil says simply.

With a fresh bandage and the world’s axis suddenly changing its inclination, Andrew has nothing to hold him from relocating to the bed. Neil joins him after putting the supplies away and making a quick trip to the bathroom to wash the blood off his hands.

He sits on the edge at first and then, after a pointed look and Andrew’s nod, gets under the covers.

Neil’s here, and after weeks of exposure, Andrew can believe that. Believing that Neil’s resolution to stay will last is an entirely different matter.

“You know, you said I was a pipe dream,” Neil says quietly, studying Andrew’s face. “Not a hallucination. A pipe dream. Ergo, you’re lying to yourself because you think I’m unachievable and not because you’re really content going through shit alone. It has to be your decision. But just for general information? I’m not going anywhere.”

Neil Josten lies like he breathes, but not with his eyes. Andrew feels dizzy.

“Ergo, I hate you.”

Neil’s lips are dry and warm when he presses them to Andrew’s forehead. A telling stretch of skin; it’s quick but leaves no route for escape. Like flames. Neil doesn’t stop smiling, small and impish, when he lies back and meets Andrew’s eyes.

“Grow a spine, Minyard. You might find you like it.”

A solid fucking million. Which now looks less like desperation and more like a testament to all the long time Neil spent being insufferable. By Andrew’s side.

Words catch up in his throat, and Andrew thinks, perhaps, he shouldn’t waste breath trying to voice them this time.

He stays silent, pushing a finger against the cruel burn on Neil’s left cheekbone. Neil lets him, but, after a moment, he turns his head to press a kiss into Andrew’s palm and drapes his hand, slowly, over Andrew’s waist. His eyes stay open and feel like sunshine.

It’s not a conversation for today. But Neil understands.

In a feat of unimaginable, reckless courage, Andrew dares hope it can be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> End credits of a sort: [I Found by Amber Run](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=szJQ0d7WOZ8)
> 
> Thanks for reading! As always, come scream at/with me on [tumblr](https://summer-jay.tumblr.com/) if you feel like it.


End file.
